


Without Fail

by Volitaire



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Addition of OC for plot device reasons, Canon Divergence AU, Erik needs Love, Graphic Depictions of Abuse, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I like inflicting pain on Erik, In which Charles is too forgiving and too perfect, M/M, PTSD, before dofp, in which the brotherhood fall apart, nightmare fic, post cuba drama, rating because of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8293111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volitaire/pseuds/Volitaire
Summary: The Brotherhood falls apart before Erik's eyes, and he's left to his own devices. Without fail, he returns to Charles... Charles may be kind, but Erik's mind simply isn't.





	

It was 1966 when everything began falling apart for the Brotherhood. Azazel and Janos disappeared one day, with no prior warning. Angel decided that she was not a killer, and left for the city again, to a mutant-friendly commune somewhere in the Mojave.

As it shifted to the forefront of the news, Vietnam caused more unrest in Raven. She made a point of listening to the radio when she thought Erik wasn't around, venturing into the closest town to snag a newspaper everyday. Raven got increasingly restless about the war, and one day informed him that she, too, was leaving for Cambodia to evacuate any Vietnamese mutants-- _They didn’t ask to be part of an American humans’ petty, destructive agenda, Erik. They could come back to the states and be safe on our side._

The night Raven left for Phnom Penh, Erik felt terribly alone. Those nights alone in the darkness were always the worst-- he would always think on those nights. Thinking was a rather dangerous thing for Erik Lehnsherr; there was no one to distract him from his guilts and doubts on those nights. Nights like that would only happen when everyone in the Brotherhood was on a mission without him. He hardly ever let that happen-- he knows better than to let that happen.

But tonight was significantly worse than any of those nights previous, for Erik was exhausted and defeated on this night. Unlike those nights previous, no one was coming back for him… it was disconcerting, to say the least.

He was tired and in danger of unraveling from his vantage point in his armchair. No one was there to protect him if he were to drift off to sleep and let his guard down. Despite trying to be as alert as possible, scanning for the presence of unfamiliar metal, his eyes still drifted closed.

The loneliness persisted for another day, through a cloudy day and a moonless night. It was especially dark in the base that night, and that was the time that his mind would play tricks on him.

In the darkness, he swore he could see Herr Doktor dwelling in the shadows, ready to strike at him with a sharp scalpel. In the darkness, he could hear the gunshot that killed his mother. Perhaps worse, he heard the gunshot that paralyzed Charles, the subsequent yelp of white-hot _agony_ … His mother died quietly, pridefully, even in the captivity of the S.S. Officers. But Charles let out the most devastating cry when he fell, blood staining the sand.

He could feel anger, he could place blame on Schmidt for his mother’s death. For Charles, however, he was the sole perpetrator. He was the only one responsible for taking away Charles’ legs. Erik tried to stop the vivid sight of glassy blue eyes, the sensation of Charles’ body trembling in his arms, the sharp smell of blood… He tried to forget the memory of washing his hands of Charles’ blood after Azazel brought them to safety.

But nothing he could do would stop the onslaught of memories. He wanted to be angry at Charles for being so naive, for trusting someone like him. But he couldn’t… He could only feel resentment towards himself for abandoning someone he loved so fiercely, who trusted him…

At the end of the day, he had nothing. Charles still had the school, he had Hank and his friends. Erik had no one… And with no one there, he had no reason to stay. He _couldn't_ stay.

*******

Charles was understandingly hesitant to let Erik in when he arrived the next day. His eyes were slightly darker before, hair less groomed. There were significantly less students than before roaming the grounds, almost completely female. He learned of the draft woes much later. Erik could see the conflict behind the telepath’s eyes.

But at the end of the day, Charles could never turn him away.

There was blatant anger on Charles’ behalf for a few weeks. He simply avoided Erik altogether for the first twelve days,making Hank show him his room on the other side of the mansion. But chess was played and talks were held into the early hours of the morning.

Within the month, however, he and Charles were somewhat back to their previous romantic arrangement, except for the sex; Charles was fairly sure how it worked, but the residual anger and resentment could make for an unpleasant time, to say the least. He had a routine, he had a family, and more importantly, he had Charles.

By the third month, they’d seemingly been able to work it all out. Charles forgave, and they moved on to being lovers, just like it was before Cuba. For the first time, Erik could sleep. Not for long, but longer than any of the years previous.

Tonight, they had played a particularly brutal game of chess, which carried on well into the night. By the time they both got to bed, Erik could hardly keep his eyes from drifting closed. When he holds Charles close in the darkness of their bedroom, the allure seemed simply too much. He never had a proper night of sleep since before the camps, he realised.

But there was something particularly comforting in Charles's presence. For once, he had nowhere he needed to run and he had someone that would never leave, and the thought let him feel comfortable enough to surrender to sleep.

His first full-fledged nightmare came that night, of Herr Doktor and the empty cold of a desolate Polish winter. He felt the metal cut into his skin, the need to scream, the revelation of complete helplessness. The sweltering darkness seemed to allow Schmidt to seem even taller, more opposing with his malicious grin and the horrible glint in his eyes. In the distance,he could hear the chant _Alles ist gut_. He could hear the faraway groans and cries of starving children and the coldness of the S. S. soldiers’ voices. But the sounds grew louder and Schmidt just cut deeper into his skin.

In the corner, his friend from Hamburg looked on with empty, pale cheeks and rotting skin. Heinrich. He was a shapeshifter whose body he had to haul out of the furnaces… He remembered looting Heinrich’s golden locket from around his charred neck. In the corner, Heinrich’s skin began burning and his screams accompanied Schmidt’s laughter. Schmidt picked up another serrated blade with a crooked grin, _Alles ist nicht gut, Erik_. He woke up abruptly before another scalpel could graze his skin.

Erik awoke with tears in his eyes, panting and shaken. He thanked god that Charles was a deep sleeper, with years of academia and minimal danger. Charles managed to shift to his side, turned away from Erik. That made it significantly easier to slip into the bathroom.

He tried to steady his breath as he splashed water on his face, gripping at the stone of the vanity. The mirror only displayed a broken man-- a victim. The uniform '214782' tattooed on his arm-- a prisoner. Faded jagged scars emerged from the neckline of his t-shirt-- a weapon.

He hated these low-cut shirts... his scars stop abruptly below his collarbones, but he never wanted to risk the chance of others seeing them. The turtlenecks were something of a godsend; they provided ample protection from the mere _possibility_ of questioning eyes and pitied looks. Long-sleeved shirts always made sure that his tattoo would never be visible. He hated formulating petty tales of the numbers on his wrist... People were usually gullible enough to buy whatever story Erik pitched, or they were smart enough to stop asking questions when they sensed the underlying rage.

His fists clenched tight around the stone, and the metal of the room shifted and groaned at the burst of emotion. If he wasn't so caught up in his own thoughts, he probably would have noticed the familiar signature of Charles's wheelchair emerge from behind him. Sure enough, he caught Charles's concerned and slightly dazed gaze in the mirror.  
"How long have you been there?" Erik muttered quietly.

"Long enough, I suppose," came the patient response.

He turned to face Charles, taking in his messy hair and skewed pyjamas. "Were you in my head?"

"You know I never would delve where I wasn't welcome, Erik." Erik cast a guilty glance at his feet; Charles is incredibly respectful about his mental boundaries, and always has.

When he received no response he continued, "What ails you, love?"

Charles reached out a hand to Erik, and Erik took it, sitting on the floor in front of the wheelchair. Even when sitting, Erik was tall enough to rest his head on Charles's thigh. He let out a shaky breath as Charles carded through his hair, "I don't want to talk about it."

Charles ran his thumb over Erik's knuckles, rubbing small circles into the chapped skin, "May I see it?"

Hesitating slightly, Erik let out a noise of affirmation and Charles placed a tentative finger on Erik's temple. Charles eased himself into that familiar mind, touch gentle. Erik pushed the fresh memory of the nightmare forward, and Charles’ mind reached out and submersed himself in it. He inhaled a soft breath as the sensations flooded him: the darkness, Shaw’s hushed tones, the sharp pain and subdued whimpers, the helplessness and the terror. Charles pulled away before the memory could finish, seeing more than enough.

"Erik," he murmured, soft voice full of lingering pain and tender love. "Come, let's go back to the bed." He obeyed, too tired to protest.

Erik slunked down onto the bed and helped Charles onto his lap per request. He kissed Erik's forehead chastely, "Give me your arm, love." He knew what Charles meant, and surrendered his marked wrist. Charles grazed his fingers over the numbers, feeling Erik tense under his touch. He studied the script for a long moment, then pressed his lips to them.

No one had ever touched his tattoo so tenderly, so lovingly. No one had called him beautiful, or bothered to look for the light within him whilst accepting his past. No one had bothered to look at all parts of him and love them individually. No one but Charles. He had taken so much from Charles--abandoned him, taken his legs, left him for dead. But he still managed to love him so fully, unconditionally.

 

The scars would never go away, the tattoo will never fade, and Charles didn't care.Auschwitz will forever be a part of him--the barbed wire and gaunt eyes and broken bodies discarded like animals. Each part of him, Charles lavished them with foreign attention, with love... Erik didn't understand how much he needed this, truly.

"You're beautiful, Erik," he murmured into the warm skin, "Even these." He kissed at the numbers again, tender.

Erik met the sincere, breathtaking eyes, and it was all over. He never broke down in front of anyone since before Auschwitz. But it seemed so natural and safe to do so with Charles so close to him, so full of compassion and understanding. Soon enough, tears fell and Erik's breath hitched... he let go.

He soon shook with sobs as Charles anchored him and peppered soft kisses across his face, down his neck. "It's going to be okay, darling," he whispered into his ear. Erik pulled him close, resting unkempt brunet hair on his heaving chest. _I love you_ he sent, just skimming in Erik's mind, mindful to touch nothing sensitive. Erik wept harder, and Charles simply held him close and comforted him. He didn't enter his thoughts, just simply encased them in his own personal serenity. He pushed comfort forward and wove his fingers into sweaty, unruly hair. _It’s going to be okay, love._

*******

As the sun rose, the fatigue and lightheadedness coaxed Erik into a state of dreamless sleep. Charles remained perched on top of the him, tracing his fingers over Erik’s cheekbones. He began wiping leftover tears from his skin before placing another soft kiss on his forehead.

The man below him may have taken away his legs and abandoned him all those years ago in Cuba. He may have had selfish intentions motivating his return. But even now, Charles could not deny how much love he had for this man. Over the months, Erik has allowed him to see the memories that haunted him-- allowed him to see his doubts and fears like never before. And those thoughts have been more than convincing for him.

He bent back to the best of his abilities to grab the blankets, perching on his broad chest and encasing them both in the thick duvet. Charles took in his lover’s resting face one last time before settling against Erik’s sternum and allowing himself to fall asleep to the cadence of his steady heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! I've been simply in love with this pairing for months, and this is the diamond among the bunch of fics I've written on these two. Feedback is appreciated. More to come. <3


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